TRUE ROMANCE POEMS
inspired by movie events
Can I kill myself with you “Let me reuse this later,” said me never, not today on this bus, heavy rainforest storm out ahead, all heavy, purple, swole. Great women poisoned their men but no great man has killed a woman. This fight is about women, no shit or anything. Whether we should snap her neck, or think about his ugly mouth. He says no. Like an old-‐fashioned marriage, we are not communicating, we are stabbing the dead with sticks in our eyes. All we can do is assure the other one, “You’re always right.” It starts to rain then clear. This problem is historical, longer than us. Hawks walk road with their wet wings. In the sky, the sun comes out.
Michael A. Gonzales
press obit said about drexal spivey/my nigga if he got no bigga/and from the looks of things, he won’t/man, me and him been
tricky dick was in the white house and angela davis’ wanted posters was our favorite centerfold/back when we thought the revolution would come/any day now damn,
around the way/other side of the tracks for real, above a pool hall called linwood’s, not far from highland park/that pale-faced boy had no choice but to fight or run/and baby, where we come from, one ever ran for long welcome to the detroit, where my homie drex earned his ghetto
spivey might’ve been skinny, but he knew how to thump/beat the shit outta some bully who we all called heart attack welcome to the d., where motown was long gone and the only songs we heard were gun shots in the night or spivey’s mom moanin’
outta a sly stone song or maybe a iceberg slim story or, that superfly movie we saw together in ‘73 at the fox theater/same night that rival crew jumped us over on woodward avenue and smashed a beer bottle in spivey’s left eye, sliced his face like it was a piece of pie/drex was bleedin’ bad, but you should’ve seen the other guy
but, time don’t be standin’ still, it be flyin’/been a million
bastard/now I’m staring into his casket/it’s all good, just part of the game/heard he had gone on to great fame, ghetto supastar till the end/never left the hood, but that white nigga had everythin’ from a diddled-eyed joe to damned if I know
Three Kung-Fu Movies (A True Romance Triptych) 1. It begins when the house lights come down, the red of me— the ravenous teeth evolving from the jungle of my animal eyes to stalk the hallowed, to prey, to live within our vestigial religion. Now come here, my dear, my pretty pink leopard print bruise. I love the blue of you, the whorl of primal primary colors I taste painted across the white-trash canvas of my tongue each time I try to swallow the galaxy of your iris in each of your transient glances.
2. It begins with three words, each a piece of shattered glass held between my timid teeth, a glint of ache on my tongue. By that, I mean: a decision. You’re so cool. I’m tense as an unanswered phone call ringing inside the frame of a ghost story. I can’t be any more clear: I am a torpor. You, an ardor, the ghost of bricks strung up around my neck. That is to say— I feel you most within my chest when you aren’t against my chest. 3.
It begins with a fire of feathers crashing to the ground in waves of white, cold as a blanket of stars when their awful sparkle sputters like a candle guttering in the moment a wind erupts from itself. This is good. Itâ€™s easier to track fresh wounds to their blushing end in the snow. But it goes the other way, too. Meaning: We can find our way back, given the snowfall is of apposite depth and we have been traveling alone. Weâ€™ll put our feet inside the footsteps of our making all the way back home.
You’re So Cool in the spine this
in the sex
of a ground down jaw in the
in the L
car where two men mistake me for Christian Slater maybe the hairline or that blonde on
they take my picture it’s on the internet “you’re
with smog cleft to my collar
I’m Catholic I mean I’m
short of the whole marimba in my
I’d part the sea for a pint
of wet cement to mend a theater
haven’t seen Badlands &
I’ve got pie on shirt too
pie in my gun to bandage
pressure a horn into place along the ear
John De Herrera
It’s Over We’re lost to each other now, let go to a sea of holiday parties neither will know the address or night of; though we’ll attend, alone or with another, heels clicking, scuffing up towards a front door, the other mind and miles away; neither will know, or what conversation we’ll laugh along with, around twelve, champagne in hand.
Through tears Forming cracks Underfoot I say Build a city where we can live In blindness. Break me into crevices— Sick looking stretches of darkness. Maybe you can go to that cave, See what you had built. See if I let you out. I am those channels of carved stone Waking to my cold skin. I am elaborate in your footsteps.
Stay True Legends, fresh-true hot lovers, all cool and so yes like Elvis, all tough like Priscilla in heels. Bloody lips and hearts fat and full, loyal young-lungs choking on life and smoke. Sweetheart, tits wet with sweat, hearing about the end, what will be, watch them heave surreal. Stick it in daddy. No more Mr. Nice Guy, who looks all ridiculous. Face red, for pain of memory corkscrew twisted, keeping the world spinning for the hot drunks in the valley with a passion for sickness. Hot-rod convertible, burn rubber, spit madness. Cancun sounds like a movie because no one sees the beach, that cut-glass water, after a romance in blood, after riches turn to powder and a whoreâ€™s most dear plans fall to truth in red lipstick and blonde giggles. A fire set, a beat-â€˜em-up shotgun and scream, baby. Diamonds and gold sunglasses, finger well-wet around a trigger on the most celebrated White Boy Day. A Mississippi memory, rock and roll, and everything else from a diddled-eyed Joe to a damned if I know. A man forever, because scum gets washed away and heroes walk away. Stay true. Light eyes/legs/feet all in love with freedom, pieces in specks in bits of dust that fly in the face of
Porsche pumping monsters with their own problems, always less than the ones sick on success. Can’t remember the end. All never remembering. Drive on, white lines on black-top, from Dee-troit, deep desert and Hollywood, baby, to where, from where, the bodies are buried, all rotting or ashes, back where Pop gave up nothing but giving a fuck and kissed his boy’s wife hard because goddamn son, he said, she’s a fucking peach. Fathers and sons can be like that. Everything out there is lost in a confusion of the who, circled by drugs, liquor, sex, and youth. Kids love different. Now, adults so-called, know what this should be, see where arms can’t hold themselves because they’re too busy holding another. Goddamn if that doesn’t mean fear, living on the run, killing, fighting, fucking, screaming; if it isn’t all that, it is less than true, it can float on as a lie. Elvis Aaron Presley once said that truth is like the sun; you can shut it out for a time but it ain’t goin’ away. Take it all, lovers hit the road and pull that trigger to survive, burn so damn hot, until there’s a flash and the world becomes a little darker, bullets stop singing and drop, while hearts empty into sticky pools that turn all black on the floor. Sunsets were meant to be ridden into, they exist as an exit, a wrought-gold end to be chased before the world goes black.
There’s a chance for the kids, always some hope to keep. That's the way it goes. But every once in awhile, it goes the other way too.
It Goes the Other Way, Too And who among us hasn’t fallen down for love hasn’t come at our wife’s pimp with vengeance dazzling
stolen uncut coke
to secure our future
gotten our father killed
gotten our friend killed
gotten everyone killed for our folly
turned innocents to informers
put Brad Pitt at risk
tapped into a coolness we just had to believe in
reshuffled power with just our charisma
and the wisdom of our
But that all seems so far away when our private paradise has been colonized by condos
when the kids are fledged
when it’s Detroit in our dreams
when rain blots the beach
when the money is a memory
when all our old injuries
tunnel up through our skin
and it’s just past supper on some desolate Tuesday.
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda
I would never have guessed that true romance and Detroit would ever go together You from Tallahassee and I from Detroit. I was your Clarence and you my Alabama went asleep as strangers, daydreaming movies woke up reliving our own romance. I wanted to be your Captain Kirk, your cocked gun ready to go off where you ready to take me, cord hanging as we dialed up each other in the phone booth. You weren’t my birthday present and even though I unwrapped you tightly, I loved the way you swore you were no high priced TJ Hooker. I remember lying naked, seeing the snow from the TV screen. although our endings were happy, as we explosively parked our cars in the same parking garage, in our own personal drive in— no one came home in a body bag. No one was shot. You left me with the remote, video tape box popcorn crushes and aftertaste of kissing French Vanilla ice cream. yearning for replay of our midnight movies. Although I wouldn’t fuck Elvis, I would love to close my eyes and hear jump in the tub and get all slippery and soapy and hop in that mattress and watch rabbit channel movies 'till you get me rising up, again romancing true Kung-‐fu lovers of our triple feature night together, sipping coffee diner flirtations bracelet charms jingling so much our spooning sugar glands fired up our tongues, our lips, our hips devoured. With one glance. I’m still you undressed untangled up in blue, sunglasses dreaming
just to feel you spread the wettest smiles from your Southern most regions, nakedly married just like in the pictures; forever shaking me on top of the morning my Mrs. Worley always reigniting your Alabama charms.
Underground Love If hell moves on a hot August night of black flames, red wind, gravity increasing as we go deeper, it will be only a New York subway ride under the earth – windows shut tight, cool bridges remembered, the heat squeezing through tunnels faster than lovers’ blood, compressors thumping in time with summer kisses.
Dustin Luke Nelson
romance after True Romance billboard light like conversation all this shootout our actions must kill the man trembling dancing alone in a hotel room a canceled credit card what kind of person you are he keeps a travel ashtray in the trunk aftershave in a ziplock bag there not a correct answer to a true moral conundrum only social stratification and the results we get suite w/ hot tub balcony dual toilets room service eat a PB&J drive across the country once die how you’re going to die
edited and art inspired by movie art by vanessa gabb
inspired by movie events